


Hope

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 03:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18111920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: After the trial, after getting his freedom at Dandolo's hands, Viktor is in a bad state, and Anton is losing hope.





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> A sort-of-sequel to [Responsibility](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17393531) and [Mercy is a question](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17475254).

Anton knew it wouldn’t be easy.

He just didn’t expect it to be _this_ terrible.

It’s not that Vik has given up on himself. It’s that he is looking for some kind of retribution — and now that he cannot have it how he wants it from Abundance, he has set himself on getting it from Anton.

Anton hates him for that, hates Abundance that chewed Vik and drained him and bled him until there were only bones left, and then crushed them, too, ground them into flour and baked her ‘glorious future’ from it.

He hates himself, for being unable to help.

They live in the Palace — because Anton is the Prince’s guest and Dandolo’s brother. Because Vik is a pariah, caught in the limbo of his thoughts. Their rooms are on one of the higher levels, and there is a small balcony that they share, and if Anton hadn’t known Vik well, he would have worried that Vik might throw himself off that balcony.

But he knows Vik (he finds just _how_ well he knows him), and Vik wouldn’t do that. Too easy for him.

“Витя. Чай будешь?”

Noctians don’t, as a rule, have doors, but Vik’s room has one, for the peace of Vik’s mind. Anton always knocks, and waits, before coming in. The room is small (though not as small as the one they used to share, back in Ophir, ages ago), and empty.

Vik’s shoulders have started stooping, even though he’s younger than Anton. Perhaps it is the burdens he had brought upon himself, and not age.

So terrible to see him idle. Anton knows Vik is a workaholic, has broken into his office enough times to find him pouring over some plans, rubbing his eyes now and then.

So terrible to see him wrapped in blankets all the time (the cold never leaves him now, phantom and persistent, coming from the inside of his very bones).

“Витя?” He walks into the room carrying a hot teapot, steps around Vik, and puts the teapot down on the small table by the bed. The only indication that Vik is aware of his presence is the gaze of wet eyes following him.

Vik has such beautiful eyes, beautiful voice — a handsome man on many accounts.

His hands are pressed between his knees (they shake often).

Anton knows what tea he prefers: so strong and thick there’s barely any taste left at all, it’s just a cupful of bitter tar — underlined with too much sugar. But it disrupts Vik’s sleep (not that he sleeps all that well even without it), and it’s bad for his heart and… And Anton wants something better for him, better that the tea dust that could be found in Ophir.

He wishes Vik wanted better for himself.

“Tosha. Why do you even bother?”

There are many answers to this question, from lies to truths, from complex to the simplest (and most difficult).

He settles on: “Because _you_ don’t.”

Vik’s hand flies to stroke his neck and jaw. He does that often. For so many years, Anton hated the brace and what it reminded him of — but now that it’s gone, he can’t get used to the pale vulnerability of Vik’s exposed throat.

Vik seems to be unable to get used to it, too.

To see him quiet is as worrisome as seeing him raving.

“Tosha, I don’t deserve this.”

He holds back a sigh and crouches in front of Vik, not without aching. Damn, but he’s rusty. Although he’s not as chilly here as he’s always in Ophir, so that’s good.

“And who does, Vitya? She tore you apart, that bitch.”

“Who?”

“Abundance.”

Vik looks away. A week ago, it would have started a shouting match.

“I’m a monster, Tosha.”

He takes Vik’s hand and presses his lips to it. It’s as cold as always, and so pale. “Drink the tea, Vitya. I’ll be right back.”

He tries to make his retreat not look like a retreat. He strides over the empty halls with confidence — until he nears the corner and finds his usual wall niche and lowers himself on the bench there.

And drops his head in his hands.

His heart races so that he feels it might tear any moment, it _should_ tear, and everything is dark and blurry except for, for a blue vine pattern on the floor tile that he traces with his gaze over and over and _over_ , holding his head tight and biting his lips until they bleed.

It fades (it always does), that sensation that he’s going to die _right now_. He is able to breathe deeper, and he reaches up to wipe his face…

When a handkerchief is put into his hand.

He stares wildly at Dandolo crouching before him, eyes worried. Anton, distantly, realizes that there are new tattoos on his face — a third triangle under his left eye — that he has somehow hasn’t paid attention to. He thinks they denote how many times Dandolo has been the Prince, but he’s not certain.

Anton folds the handkerchief three times, then wipes his cheeks.

“When did these attacks start?” Dandolo says quietly.

“A while ago. Two weeks.”

“ _Talpa_.”

He moves on the bench so that Dandolo can sit. They barely fit in the niche, it is not made for two not very small men. But the press of Dandolo’s body against his is… comforting.

There have only ever been two people in Anton’s life who didn’t owe him, weren’t dependent on him. Dandolo is one. He bestows his love and friendship as though there is no limit to them, a bottomless well. They’ve had their share of bitter mistakes and pain and rivalry — but it doesn’t devalue all those gifts in Anton’s eyes. He cherishes them greedily, his own treasure.

It always feels like he has stolen them.

The scent of oranges is a comfort, too.

“He’s quiet,” Anton says, looking at the opposite wall, at the vine pattern. “I almost wish we returned to shouting.”

“Oh please don’t, _talpa_ , you are difficult to tear apart. You are strong like a mole.”

The attempt at a jibe brings a smile to his lips. “Oh Prince, I know you are even stronger. These muscles of yours are not just so you could look good in blue tunics.”

They laugh quietly, together. Anton wipes his cheeks again, tucks himself close to Dandolo.

“Do you want me to talk with him?”

“I’m at the end of the rope, honestly, so it’s either you or Roy.”

Dandolo hums. “A pilot or a monk. I wanted to talk with him anyway, we have a lot to discuss, but…” Dandolo falls silent for some time, clearly lost in thought, and Anton watches him.

He knows he’s lucky to have Dandolo’s friendship and love, no matter their business rivalry, and the debt of Vitya’s freedom is impossible to repay — and he knows, too, that Dandolo wouldn’t demand payment (they are more likely to have a fight over Anton’s considering it a debt at all).

Sometimes he thinks Dandolo is very strange — but other times he wonders whether it’s him who’s strange, twisted by Abundance. Just a by-product of her assembly line.

“I think I know something that might help him,” Dandolo says at last.

Anton would have had hope rise in his chest, but he’s so tired. “You are wise, Dandolo, when it doesn’t come to business, but I just… I want him to want to live. To do penance, to try to do some good — but live. Not… that. I’d be grateful for any help.”

Dandolo squeezes his hand, and frankly, that is the most reassuring thing as of late. To know that his pain is seen.

Anton returns to Vitya without Dandolo. The tea is untouched. He sits down on the bed with Vitya, and Vitya leans on him slightly, all bones and long shadowy lines and the blanket wrapped around him. This minute movement makes Anton’s heart clench, and he swallows to stop tears from spilling.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like this, before Vitya tenses up. Dandolo walks in with a bundle in both arms.

“Hello, Viktor.” Dandolo is probably the only person in existence who can make Vitya’s full name sound not like an accusation, but as an invitation to a dialog. “I won’t take too much of your time, you still need plenty of rest. Could you hold something?”

Vitya leans back — and Dandolo lowers the bundle onto his lap.

To Anton’s confusion, the bundle moves. Vitya peels back the edge of the cloth cover to reveal a triangular head with small faceted eyes like black jewels, mandibles moving slowly.

“This is a manta. He was snatched by a mole, right out of his cast — his group — and lost most of his right wing. Orion has made him a replacement, but he needs care and a lot of warmth before he will be able to learn to fly again. And without his cast he won’t survive. I’d like you to help him. It won’t take much energy.”

Anton tries to imagine the wing span of the manta. He’s never seen one of these close.

Vitya uncovers more of the manta’s… shoulder, Anton assumes, and there are stitches in the red-brown of the skin, attaching a piece of something that looks awfully like a solar-threaded sail.

“Mantas hunt in casts,” Vitya says, stroking the shoulder.

The manta fusses and tries to turn, and moves closer to Vitya. Searching for warmth, perhaps.

“Yes,” Dandolo says. “He can’t find food alone, and he can’t regulate his temperature properly with his wing damaged and without his cast to warm him at night. He will die of cold or starvation.”

“Such a clever trick, Prince,” Vitya says — and in his low voice Anton hears the traces of amusement, of the hunter who seems to have died weeks ago. “A torn and helpless creature — do you hope I will see an analogy?”

“I hope,” Dandolo says gently, “that you will help him, even if you refuse to help yourself. But if you don’t want him, I will find another caregiver for him. You are free to choose, and this time, whatever you choose, lives won’t be at risk.”

Vitya helps the manta partially out of the covers and wraps him in his blanket, close to his chest. Anton is certain that one of the manta’s legs is not whole either. The skin is covered with gouges that resemble ragged cuts that moles leave.

“Can I give him a name?”

“If you wish.”

Vitya strokes the manta’s back. The spines, or whatever they are called, on the feet cling to Vitya’s shirt. “I name him Sirin. Hello, Sirin.”

Dandolo smiles, then turns to leave.

“Dandolo? Could I… come to talk once in a while?”

“Whenever you want.”

“Thank you.”

Then, Dandolo leaves.

Anton watches Vitya stroke Sirin’s back carefully, then Vitya looks at him, takes a deep shuddering breath — and Anton understands. And wraps his arms around him.

“Tosha.”

“Vitya.”

Vitya cries, shuddering, and the manta brushes his face, and Anton holds him, and knows there is hope.


End file.
